


Just Fine

by SrebrnaFH



Series: Monday Fix-Its [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Sign of Three, Cheating, Drunk John, Drunk Jokes, Drunk Sherlock, Drunkenness, Evil Mary Morstan, Monday Fix-It, Pregnancy, Stag Night, The Stag Night Fix-It (Sherlock: The Sign of Three)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 01:30:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21401941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: Sherlock blurts out something he would have otherwise kept as a secret for some time longer.John isn't exactly... happy.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Monday Fix-Its [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1190245
Comments: 6
Kudos: 91





	Just Fine

**Author's Note:**

> A very late Monday fix-it today, since it's public holiday in Poland and I might have kind of forgotten it was Monday already ;) Anyway, it's here.  
Have fun.

"What I wanted to say..." Sherlock trailed off, wavering a bit in place, his eyes not really focusing on John - not that John's could focus on Sherlock any better, mind you - shrugged and shook his head.

That was an error, at least according to John.

Judging from the moan, Sherlock would have agreed.

"What _did_ you want to say then?"

"Well..."

The great detective and his fabulous sidekick were smashed. Wrecked. Plastered. Hammered, even.

The very mention of hammers (even if just in his thoughts) made John wince - he was already calculating the scale of the hangover he would be experiencing after that night.

They were totally, utterly, completely rat-arsed.

He said so. Loudly.

Sherlock leaned on a lamppost and looked at him attentively, first with one eye then the other, turning his head a bit, like a parrot.

"Well, probably... Yes. Indeed. We are. However, that doesn't... doesn't change that thing. That thing I wanted to..."

He stumbled.

"Con-gra-tu-la-te you. Yes. That was the correct verb. Congratu... that thing."

"You? Congratululu— that thing. Me?"

"Yes. Absolutely. The baby. I mean, it is kind of..."

John blinked, slowly.

Trying to think a bit more... consciously.

"The baby?"

"Yes! Congratulations!"

"What. Baby?"

Sherlock looked at him. Blinked. Long lashes fluttered. Like a butterfly's wing.

"Your baby, John. The one you are having with—" he paused, swallowed. "With Mary."

"I'm not having any baby with Mary, Sherlock. I think I would know."

"Well—" his friend heaved a sigh. "Now you know. I wish you— all that. You know. Happy and feelings."

John wasn't feeling _happy_.

In fact, he felt more lost than anything else.

"Have you thought about the names?" Sherlock smiled widely. "I know a few nice ones. Like..." he paused, trying to catch the thread of thought which had ran away from him. "Well. I mean..."

"No, I haven't been thinking about any names," in his own ears, John sounded wheezy, low and somewhat tired, suddenly. Suddenly? "Because I haven't been considering _having_ a baby until now!"

Sherlock looked at him, frowning.

"But she is nice?" he suggested, tentatively.

"She may be," John grunted. "But she is also on the pill. Supposed to be."

"O-oh," Sherlock's movements ground into a halt. "Oh, not— sorry. Didn't know that. Miscalculation."

"Well, it happens, but since we are both medical professionals, we know what to do and how to manage the less safe periods. And we did...!"

####

They were walking - where from exactly? He wasn't watching the streets around them, so much he was focused on John - his eyelashes, his thin but pink lips...

"So... No names considered yet then?"

It felt important. Names were important. Hamish. William. The unused three which his family had saddled Mycroft with. Whatever it was that Mary was hiding.

_Wait a moment._

He stopped and found himself tracking back in his own thoughts.

_Whatever it was that Mary was hiding...?_

"Nope. Although, now that I think about it, I'd considered naming him Harry Angus."

The _non sequitur_ was most baffling.

"What does your sister have to do with any of this?"

John peered at him, still looking adorably confused.

"My sister? No. I mean Harry Houdini."

"W-what?"

"The escape artist. I mean, considering I, well, _wrapped it up_ every time and this still happened? The kid _will_ be named after Harry Houdini and Angus MacGyver..."

####

In the end, by the time they got back to 221B, he had actually worked it all out. It was obvious. Just like adding two, and two and another two... and then dividing by two and coming up with three.

There were so many threes in that story.

One of them was, of course, someone being the third wheel in Mary and John's relationship and, for once in his life with John, it wasn't Sherlock...!

He had become rather accustomed to being an intruder when it came to John's forays into the hell of dating scene - the one big issue the girlfriends dumped John over, in fact. Suddenly, the third person wasn't him! A surprise!

(and he didn't mean the kid, obviously)

Whoever the _other_ man was, Mary had either used him as convenient means of getting pregnant or had been sustaining a long-term relationship with him that resulted in said pregnancy. Either option was unpalatable (albeit in a different fashion) but, as he laid them out for himself in his Mind Palace, he couldn't yet decide which seemed more probable

He would need more time to observe Mary in social situations.

However, therein laid the problem.

The next possible social situation he could have had an occasion to watch Mary interact with John and others was the wedding.

The Wedding.

He drew a deep breath and turned towards John, who was now sitting, hunched over, next to him on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

"Fuck it," his friend said suddenly. "Fuck fuckity fuck."

"Someone already did," Sherlock remarked (probably unhelpfully?), belched discreetly and yawned. That, however, made him notice that he was, in fact, not yet sober enough for being of any help.

Or even just _being_.

He was feeling kind of faintly disconnected from the reality.

John's narrowed eyes focused on him.

"_Oi_."

The weight of John letting go of his proper, cultured accent and slipping into the broad brogue of his ancestors - even if it was just that one syllable! - woke Sherlock up. Not enough to make him really present and completely functioning, but just enough to allow him to mumble a faint "Sor'y."

"S'okay," John's warm hand on his back felt really good. Too good.

"So... wha'r'yu goin' to do?"

John shrugged.

"One thing I'm... I'm _not_ doing is, you know, going through with the thing. Nope. This is soooo off."

"And how are you...?"

"I've just sent, that thing. A, a text. To the venue. And I mass-texted everyone involved. Hopefully."

Sherlock looked at him, feeling vaguely scandalised.

"She will find out you... from a text?"

John shrugged with a nasty, nasty grin.

"There is that saying? Father knows last? Today it's gonna be 'the bride knows last'."

"You are a cruel person, John Watson."

John sniffed, in that fashion that meant he was, actually, rather more angry than anything else.

"There are things I can't forgive," he murmured. "And doing this? Whatever she did, I mean, in detail? The — the whole of it is — bloody unforgivable."

"It is," he confirmed gravely. "So— what will you do now?"

He peered at John, trying to be discreet about it.

Blue, tired eyes met his gaze.

"Not sure," John sniffed - now more sad than angry? "But I— I think I have a friend, who has an empty room. He might allow me to move back in. I hope."

"Ah," Sherlock leaned back, smiling - trying not to make it overly victorious. "He just might, actually. He just might."

"That... That's good. I should ask him then."

"No need to ask, John."

"O-oh. Thank you."

Sherlock felt a smile tugging at his lips.

"Now," he stretched his legs and toed off his severely scuffed shoes. "What's on the telly?"

John yawned, kicked his own brogues off and tugged the blanket from the back of the sofa down, to cover the two of them against the slight late-night-early-morning chill.

"No idea. But does it matter?"

"Not at all."

"Very well."

Sherlock wiggled his toes and watched as John fought with the remote.

_Bliss._

It was all going to be just fine.

They were going to be just fine.

Just fine.


End file.
